Small White Lie
by a tattered rose
Summary: The Lightman Group uses a language all its own. Gil and Loker continue a conversation they've been having for a long time. Spoilers for "Tractor Man."


A/N: I wrote this after seeing the sneak video of Loker's song in "Tractor Man." It takes place directly after. The episode didn't _quite _go this route, making this somewhere between an AU and a missing scene.

- . -

Gil clapped along with the class, reluctant to interrupt the easy scene. Loker knew she was waiting.

Heidi gave her a smile as she passed into the conference room, toting a stack of printer paper and the The Lightman Group's entire motley collection of scissors. Making paper snowflakes – the next in a series of activities the assistants and researchers had been planning ever since the lockdown had left them with only one active case and a room full of children to divert their attention from worry.

While the children helped Heidi replace the chairs and portion out paper, their teacher and Loker whispered in the corner. Low laughter, a hand briefly touching his forearm where it lay over the guitar strings. Attraction. Flirtation. From both of them – confirmed when Loker cut his eyes over to where Gilian still stood in the doorway, blushing and almost looking away before she caught his attention with hand and head to indicate he should meet her in her office. He nodded once in acknowledgment before turning back to whisper something in the teacher's ear.

Gillian was pulling up her email when a tap at the door coincided with movement in her peripheral vision. The beauty of glass offices.

"You wanted to see me?" Loker, she noted, had brought his guitar with him, angled defensively under one arm.

She did – a collection of home videos of the "Tractor Man," as he was being called, had arrived in the lab and she wanted Loker to oversee the analysis. But first, now, she had a question.

"So you can sing." She'd seen the guitar in the lab many times, but never heard him play that either. Maybe Lightman, with his predilection for spying, knew.

He shifted his weight at the approval in her voice, stepping forward to rest the guitar on the back of the chair facing her desk. "Just trying to keep the kids entertained. After all, if it's not very exciting for _me_ stuck here all day, they've got to be going out of their skulls."

There was an unusual amount of space between them, of which she was acutely aware. They had worked together for too long and too closely for the awkwardness in the air. One too many secrets that weren't secret, she supposed. One too many ill-defined exchanges.

She stood up and walked around her desk to perch on the edge, crossing her legs languidly. Absurdly aware that she was competing with a woman a decade younger. A pretty young woman who seemed very nice, very intelligent, musically inclined and who was obviously interested in Eli. And who was not in any way his boss, making it a perfect match and making what she was doing now fundamentally wrong on several levels.

But she couldn't stop herself. Didn't want to stop herself. Ever since her divorce she had been letting herself do the things she never would have before, relishing the thrill of the freedom. And Eli... He had such charm, despite his obsessive qualities. It was why she had hired him in the first place – the enthusiasm with which he invested himself in each new study reminded her of herself, when she was his age. She enjoyed watching him, working with him. And she had enjoyed his flattering crush – obvious even while his 'radical honesty' phase managed to gloss it over. In deference to her marriage?

Perhaps. It was only recently that the boy who had seemed so transparent was revealing himself opaque before her. He had lied for her, and for the first time she hadn't known why.

And so here she was. Sitting on her desk, sending flirtatious signals to a man she knew would recognize them because she had taught him exactly what to look for and what it meant. Any language, to be meaningful, needs vocabulary and grammatical rules. Meaningful discourse can then happen between two individuals who each possess knowledge of the language. This was The Lightman Group – the language they used here was one very rarely verbal.

She crossed her leg a little higher, letting her skirt slip a fraction. "Play me something."

He was determinedly looking anywhere but at her, the blush attractive on his pale skin. That could indicate discomfort, but by the tension of his hand around the neck of the guitar, the controlled, over-slow breathing, she knew he was mostly fighting arousal.

"I should get back down to the lab. They're probably swamped and-"

"-Ria's on top of it." Interruption was a handy tool to redirect attention. It worked – his eyes flicked to hers. His pupils were nearly black, dilated more than she expected. She tried to hide her surprise, but by the quirk at the corner of his mouth she wasn't entirely successful. "And I could use a break. So play something, please, just for me." She smiled at him – not because she was playing a game but because she wanted to.

Eli looked down, licked his lips. Then in one resolute movement he stepped around to sit on the edge of the chair, right in front of her. He settled the guitar in his lap with practiced ease, and looked up at her. "I wrote this one for you, a while back. Just messing around. It's a bit out of season now, but..." He shrugged, apologetically.

They were so close Gillian could see the rim of color around his pupils. The muscles in his hand dance as he started to play, a pretty collection of notes that resolved into the tune for 'White Christmas.'

"I'm dreaming of a small, White Lie

Just like the ones I used to tell

About broken vases

and stolen bases

It wasn't my fault that he fell"

He glanced up to see how she was receiving the lyrics, shooting her a small grin. His voice was lower than earlier, quieter and more hauntingly intimate. Though her perception was likely influenced by how easy it would be to prop her toe on his knee, slide it up his thigh... Try to disconcert him as she watched his fingers move with unhesitating skill.

"I'm dreaming of a small, White Lie

With every frown and every fight

May my judgment always be right

And my conscience evermore be light"

The last notes faded into stillness.

Sometimes, eventually, they did say things here.

"Small?" She hated the way her voice came out, breathless and shaking. She wasn't even sure how she wanted him to respond – maybe it would be best if he just left.

Instead, eyes averted, he carefully set his guitar against her desk, stood and leaned over until his lips were at her ear. "I _don't_ go for married woman. But I _always_ wanted you."

She shivered. A combination effect of warm breath tickling her ear and _those_ words, from a man who, despite his boyish antics, was feeling very solid and smelling very good and whose voice had just enough gravel to shoot tingles _everywhere_ and...

He pulled back then, just enough to look into her eyes. Steadily, openly. Not searching. Simply waiting.

It was his turn to watch as she looked down to her own hemline. Then slowly traced her fingers up his arms using unmistakeably erratic patterns. If he was still standing there by the time she reached his shoulders...

She continued, running her hands lightly over his chest, feeling him trembling now as she lightly caressed his throat and by the time she stopped at the nape of his neck they were both over-ready and breathing erratically.

Finally, she met his eyes again. Black on black. Then she pulled him down and kissed him.


End file.
